Bilingual thoughts on life, language, learning, and all things Latina.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Goodnight Sam...

He was 70, maybe 80when his wife lay dying in the hospitaland it was our turn to make sure he got to bed OK.I let myself in after dinnernoticing the cat’s moist food had dried up,the refrigerator was left open,and something smelled in the trash can.Sam sat, as he always did, in his chair by the living room windowreading the newspaper by the light of a lampin a short sleeve plaid shirt, khaki pantshis black framed glasses perched neatly on his nose.It was my job to tell him it was time to get ready for bed.He seemed insulted by my being there,folded his paper, made two, three attempts to get upand upon steadying himself,shuffled off to his bedroom while Iwashed his plate, glass, fork and knifeopened a can of Friskies Buffet andgave the cat fresh water.I sat in his wife’s chair and waitedlooking around me, at photos of a young couple,mementos of World War Twoand a collection of knick-knacks placed on faded cream-colored doilieswhile he paced back and forth from living room to bathroomin boxer shorts, white undershirt, brown sockspale sagging skinand disheveled white hair.I made him nervous I know,it breaks my heart to remember.“Are you leaving yet?”“Yes Sam. Goodnight,”I locked the door behind me,cut through the back yardand went inside where I continued to watch himfrom our own kitchen windowuntil he finally turned out the light.